


The Sherlock Files: Applegate

by sam80853



Series: The Sherlock Files [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam80853/pseuds/sam80853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is facing Charles Augustus Magnussen as well as an hexenwolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sherlock Files: Applegate

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The Sherlock Files. You probably should read that one first.  
> I am combining what happened in season 3 as well as taking some events from Jim Butcher's books "The Dresden Files"
> 
> Beta work by stillcentre, thank you!

London’s only openly practicing wizard Sherlock Holmes was lying on his couch at 221B Baker Street, hands under his chin and contemplating to take, or - as the case might be - not to take the case Lady Smallworth had lain down at his feet when a slight disruption of the energy protecting 221B made him aware of people approaching.

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle when two obviously armed men entered his living room, quickly sweeping it for signs of danger and then giving an ‘all-clear’ sign for a third man to enter.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was a slender, tall man with thinning hair and spectacles. He was, as Sherlock had told Lady Smallworth just a few hours ago, the most dangerous man Sherlock had ever encountered. As the owner of several newspapers in town he had a vault known as ‘Applegate’ filled with files on every person that could become useful to him in one way or another. A ruthless blackmailer, not taken on lightly, and Magnussen knew it.

Magnussen stepped into Sherlock’s living room, taking in anything and everything his eyes fell upon before he carefully sat down on Sherlock’s table right in front of the couch Sherlock was laying on.

Sherlock sat up in one smooth motion, facing his visitor.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Holmes,” Magnussen purred and Sherlock gave an involuntary shiver. 

Magnussen was not a man of magic - as Sherlock knew - but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Sherlock kept quiet, just watching Magnussen watching him.

“I have an offer to make,” Magnussen continued, not disturbed in the slightest by Sherlock obvious disinterest.

“Not. Interested.” Sherlock answered, overemphasizing his remark.

“It may be in your best interest to at least hear me out,” Magnussen said calmly like he was talking to a sullen child.

“You are here to tell me not to take Lady Smallworth's case,” Sherlock said. “Obvious.” He waved his hand in disregard. “There is nothing you could say or offer me to make that happen.”

“I see,” Magnussen sighed deeply and hung his head in disappointment for a second. When he lifted his head again his eyes met Sherlock’s full on and before Sherlock was even aware what was happening the soulgaze was upon him.

Eyes are windows to your soul and when you look directly into a wizard’s eyes you get a glimpse of his innermost, of what he’s capable of doing, his most precious memories. Everything that makes him who he is.

Sherlock would have prefered not to have Magnussen see his true character but since a soulgaze is after all a two-way-street he, perhaps, in return could learn something about his opponent.

Magnussen was a dedicated man, he got what he wanted. Always. At all costs necessary. Fear did not affect him. He was ruthlessly effective. Nothing had gotten in his way, ever.

Sherlock’s heart began beating faster. 

There was something hiding deep down in Magnussen’s soul. Something he would rather forget, erase, but before Sherlock was able to get a good look Magnussen blinked and broke the spell.

A knowing smile appeared on Magnussen’s lips and he stood, looking down at Sherlock now.

“I realize now that my attempt to persuade you was misguided, I apologize.” He said, moving toward the door. “We shall meet again, Mr Holmes,” and he swept out of the room.

Sherlock took a deep breath, annoyed by his still fast beating heart. Magnussen was a pompous man; he was no threat to Sherlock.

“How is Dr Watson, Mr Holmes?” Magnussen asked, suddenly standing on Sherlock’s doorstep again.

Sherlock flinched and Magnussen smiled jubilantly before he turned around and went down the stairs, leaving 221B for good.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock and John’s relationship after Moriarty had been, to put it mildly, bumpy. 

John had saved Sherlock’s life. With a kiss to top it all of and afterward John had sputtered words about adrenaline, not thinking clearly and whatever else he had come up with to emphasize that he was not gay.

Sherlock had never understood people’s need to label everything. He did not care in the least if John was gay or, as he claimed, not gay. He knew that John was attracted to him, had felt it when they had kissed. John’s rejection had hurt Sherlock more than he cared to admit.

In the end, though, Sherlock had been unable to resist John’s attempt to get their friendship back on track. He needed John by his side and John needed him if he knew you it yet or not. 

_How is Dr Watson, Mr Holmes?_

Now _that_ was obviously a threat and Sherlock chided himself for having given Magnussen his pressure point so easily. Foolish, really.

‘Pressure point’, that was how Magnussen operated. He found your weakness and exploited it, relentlessly.

Sherlock reached for his coat, put it on while rushing down the stairs. He had better warn John about what might come his way.

~::~::~::~::~

Laughter resounded from the mortuary when Sherlock approached. He stopped. Not that it was unusual for John to be laughing. Quite the opposite. 

John was a friendly man. An ordinary, harmless-looking man usually dressed in one of his dreadful jumpers. But that was only the image John wanted the world to see. Sometimes the one he showed even to himself. But Sherlock knew better. John was as far from harmless as a human being could possible be. He craved danger like other people craved chocolate, he only had the decency to know that that was not quite alright. John cared about what people thought of him after all. Sherlock had no such qualms. Life - and people in particular - were tedious enough without all those conventions to follow.

John’s laughter resounded again and Sherlock opened to door.

A blonde woman in a dark suit was standing quite close to John. Like they were sharing a secret. 

Sherlock frowned.

Everything about those two screamed intimacy at him and Sherlock had never seen this woman before.

“Sherlock.” John said with surprise in his voice when he finally noticed the other man in the room. 

The woman looked from John to Sherlock, not stepping away from John, Sherlock noticed.

Sherlock looked from John to the woman:

“This...this is Mary,” John stumbled over his own words. “I mean, Agent Mary Morstan,” he corrected himself. “She is…”

“MI5,” Sherlock finished John’s sentence.

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” John said with a smile on his lips. He turned toward Mary then. “Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes. My co--”

“Friend.” Sherlock said, stepping closer, and drawing air in through his nose. Something about Mary smelled -- off.

“Everything alright, Sherlock?” John asked, watching Sherlock sniff his girl-friend.

“Not sure yet,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath. There was definitely something about that woman that had Sherlock’s senses in disarray. For a second he considered to open the Sight but thought better of it immediately. John liked her and he was a good judge of character. Usually.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Mary said, undisturbed by Sherlock’s rudeness. “John told me all about you.”

“He never talks about you,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

“Sherlock!” John said and laughed, looking at Mary apologetically. “I didn’t say anything,” he still looked at Mary, “because there was nothing to tell then. Mary and I are -- dating,” John turned toward Sherlock with his last words.

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock blinked in confusion. Of course, everything he had seen so far had made it obvious that John and Mary had been seeing each other but…

“Yes,” John said. “I’m quite sure we are, Sherlock.”

“Body,” Sherlock switched the topic so fast it almost gave John whiplash.

“What?” John ask in confusion, watching Sherlock step closer to the examination table, ignoring Mary completely.

“The case, John.”

“Case? What case? Sherlock,” John stepped between Sherlock and the table to stop Sherlock from lifting the sheet covering one of the more brutal murder victims John had seen, and he had seen quite a bit in his career as a soldier in combat. “This is actually Mar-- Agent Morstan’s case,” John pointed out.

Sherlock frowned at John. As if jurisdiction had ever stopped Sherlock before. He wasn’t even here because of a case; this was probably not even worth Sherlock’s time. He just needed to engage his mind with something other than ‘John’ and ‘dating Mary’. Anything would do at this point, really.

“Perhaps he can help, John,” Mary said, joining their circle around the examination table.

“Of course, I can,” Sherlock sounded insulted and John sighed deeply. This whole situation was going exactly like he feared it would.

Sherlock slide back the sheet covering the body and took a deep breath as the smell hit him. The victim smelled like--

“You,” Sherlock said and looked accusingly at Mary. “He smells like you.”

“Sherlock!” John tried to intervene but Sherlock was in Mary’s face before he could even lift a finger. The air was suddenly filled with angry energy.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t hear John but he felt his hands around his arms, dragging him away from Mary.

“She was his partner, Sherlock,” John reasoned in a calm voice, now standing between Sherlock and Mary but still holding onto Sherlock. “She brought him in. That’s must be why she smells like him.”

Sherlock tried to listen to John, tried to calm the anger that had suddenly built up inside. It felt like a dark cloud was surrounding his mind leaving only Mary in the spotlight. Something was off. She did smell like her partner but the smell… it wasn’t like the smell of death. It was something else. Something Mary and her partner had in common. Something…

“Sherlock!”

The cloud cleared like John had slapped Sherlock and Sherlock’s horizon widened, taking the spotlight away from Mary.

“You okay?” John whispered and Sherlock nodded his head. He had absolutely no idea what had just happened. He had thought John in danger and just -- snapped. He could not lose control like that. Ever. He was a powerful wizard and letting loose was the last thing anyone needed. Or wanted.

Sherlock took a deep breath, calming himself down.

“I apologize,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth to a obviously shaken Mary. Not that he meant it. Of course, not. But it was what John expected him to do. “I’m sorry,” he repeated toward John, meaning it this time.

John only nodded his head and stepped closer to Mary, reassuring himself that she was alright.

Sherlock couldn’t watch John comforting Mary and turned back to the corpse again. The victim was a middle-aged man, in good shape except for where his throat had been ripped open. Not sliced, ripped.

A wolf.

Obviously.

A werewolf to be precise;l there were no wolves running the streets of London these days.

“What do you think?” John asked. “It looks like an animal attack,” he continued. “No defensive wounds.”

“The victim knew his murderer,” Sherlock confirmed. “He felt safe, didn’t expect to be attacked.”

“But what…”

“A werewolf, John,” Sherlock said. “Obviously.”

“Obviously?” Mary pitched in and looked stunned by Sherlock’s deduction. “A werewolf, I mean…”

Sherlock lifted his hand to stop her words.

“Either you take my words as gospel, Agent Morstan, or at least be quiet.” He said and took out his magnifying glass to have a closer look at the wound.

“Bit not good,” John whispered leaning over the corpse close to Sherlock.

“What do you see in her?” Sherlock whispered back.

“I can hear you, you know?” Mary declared and Sherlock looked at her in surprise. Her hearing was definitely on the extraordinary side, he decided.

“There are some visible bite marks,” Sherlock pointed out to John. “You will find that those won’t match a dogs or whatever else you may think attacked him. Some strains of hair as well. If we are very lucky you may be able to pull off some DNA…”

“DNA?” Mary asked, stepping between Sherlock and John. “We don’t have a databank for werewolves.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “DNA would be human, of course. That’s what a werewolf is, after all. A man in a sheep’s coat, if you will,” he said and looked at her pointedly. He moved on to the victim’s clothing: a dark suit similar to Mary Morstan’s, a tie, a shirt and -- a belt. Not a belt you hold up your trousers with though. Sherlock inspected it closer, sniffed it and his head came up. He looked directly at Mary.

“What is it?” John asked, sensing that something was amiss.

“He was a hexenwolf,” Sherlock said, eyes locked with Mary’s, his head cocked to the right.

“What the hell is a hexenwolf?”

“Someone stupid enough to make a deal with a demon or sorcerer to receive a wolf-belt, a magic belt, that turns them into wolves whenever they need to.”

“Who would do something like that?” John wanted to know, totally missing that Sherlock had pinned Mary down with his eyes. He saw but did not observe.  
“Who indeed.” Sherlock repeated and stepped closer to Mary, nostrils flared. “Hurt him and I'll kill you,” he whispered so only Mary could hear his words.

To her credit she didn’t wince or step back, just nodded her head in understanding.

“Got to dash,” Sherlock said with a forced smile toward John and took off, head reeling. John had gotten himself entangled with a hexenwolf, and Sherlock had set Magnussen on his trail. This day couldn’t get any worse.

It could though.

Mycroft was waiting outside the morgue, his sleek black car shining in the sunlight.

“I don’t have time for this, Mycroft,” Sherlock said and marched on. His brother followed, of course.

“I hear you had a visitor this morning,” Mycroft said conversationally, swinging his umbrella with his left hand.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than watching me, Mycroft?” Sherlock sneered, walking on.

“Not if it involves your safety,” Mycroft stated. “And Dr Watson’s, of course.”

Sherlock halted and faced his brother.

“Surely he wouldn’t dare going after John,” he said, already knowing the answer.

Mycroft didn’t grace Sherlock’s words with a reply. They both knew - or had at least an idea - of what Magnussen was capable off.

“What do you intend to do, brother-mine?”

“I’m not backing off Lady Smallworth’s case,” Sherlock said stubbornly and Mycroft nodded. He was aware that his little brother would go after Magnussen no matter what. He sighed.

“I can help,” he offered.

“You really couldn’t,” Sherlock retorted and started walking again. He would not expect help from Mycroft. 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called but Sherlock kept on walking. 

He needed to _think._

He needed help. It pained him to admit it, but there was more at stake than just Sherlock’s reputation. John needed to be protected at all costs.

Sherlock wouldn’t ask Mycroft, though.

Somebody else then.

~::~::~::~::~

Sherlock entered “Coiffure Cup”, a high end hair salon he usually would avoid being seen in. But needs must.

Silence immediately fell over the room when Sherlock stepped inside. Everyone looked at him except a dark-haired, well-built man talking in a heavy French accent to his customer.

“We need to talk,” Sherlock approached the man and pointed at the back office. He didn’t wait for the man to follow, just swung his long coat and moved on.

“Nice entrance,” the man said sarcastically a few seconds later, French accent all but gone.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just looked at his brother - Sherringford Holmes or, as he was known these days, Thomas Raith.

Thomas was Sherlock and Mycroft’s half-brother, a vampire of the White Court.  
Every powerful family had their dark secret and Thomas was theirs. Nobody knew he existed or, at least, didn’t know about the family connection. Not even Sherlock had known for the longest time. 

He had learnt about Thomas’ existence when he had been facing Bianca St Claire, a vampire of the Red Court, at one of her balls. Sherlock had found himself poisoned with vampire venom and would have most likely died if Thomas hadn’t intervened and revealed his identity in the process. They have been close ever since, or as close as they could be being Holmeses.

“You could have gone to Mycroft, you know,” Thomas smiled at his little brother, knowing very well that Sherlock never would.

“I really couldn’t have,” Sherlock said, his face open and honest.

Thomas frowned. It wasn’t like his brother to show emotions so openly.

“This has something to do with John, hasn’t it?”

Thomas’s statement wasn’t a big leap by a long shot. Everybody who knew Sherlock even a little knew that Sherlock cared about John. Only Thomas though, and to an extent Mycroft, knew how deeply. And exactly that fact was why Sherlock would always go to Thomas first instead of Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t care about people. Neither did Sherlock, much. But John wasn’t ‘people’. John was John and Thomas understood that.

As a vampire of the White Court Thomas had to feed his ‘inner hunger’ off people's emotional energy in the form of lust, through sex, and this act could result in death of the hapless mortal. Thomas hadn’t cared about the fact until he had met Justine.

Justine was a slim beautiful girl who had been deeply in love with Thomas, and Thomas had loved her back, which had almost cost her her life. When a White Court vampire fed off a human they could easily lose control and in the process unintentionally kill their victim. Thomas had been able to force himself away from Justine at the last minute, an almost impossible task, and Justine had recovered. She had stayed with Thomas, was working with him now, but she was wearing the mark of true love. Thomas wasn’t able to touch her ever again without burning himself.

Thomas understood Sherlock better than anyone ever could.

“You have to keep him safe,” Sherlock all but whispered, looking at his brother. “Promise.”

“Of course,” Thomas swore. “What are you up to, Sherlock?”

“That is really not important,” Sherlock waved a hand in disregard. “John got himself involved with a hexenwolf,” he continued and looked at Thomas pointedly.

“You surely can talk to him, make him aware of the danger he is in.”

“I cannot discredit her, Thomas,” Sherlock said. “Without proof of what she really is, I would drive him away. He believes himself in love.”

“Perhaps he is.” Thomas pointed out and Sherlock frowned like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Don’t be absurd.”

Despite the delicate topic Thomas burst out laughing.

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of self-importance,” Thomas said, still chuckling.

“Just keep your promise,” Sherlock said and stormed out, sulking like a five-year-old child.

~::~::~::~::~

Gaining access to Magnussen’s office turned out to be a two-man-job and Sherlock had to rely on John to help him. Which really wasn’t much of an imposition; John craved adventure after all and a little break-in would get his heart pumping.

“How are we going to do this again?” John asked, sitting in Sherlock’s living room - in his designated chair - and drinking a cup of tea he had made himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with no real malice in it.

“Do keep up, John,” he said and stood, pacing the living room. “You will get Magnussen’s attention, pretending to be willing to help him get me off Lady Smallworth’s case…”

“How shall I do that?”

“John! Use your imagination!”

“No Sherlock, seriously,” John stood now as well. “Everyone knows that I follow wherever you go. How in the world can I make him believe I would turn on you?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, facing John.

He was right, Sherlock figured. John always went wherever Sherlock led them. Without question. It had never really occurred to him that John trusted him that much.

Silence fell while Sherlock stared at John in astonishment while John’s gaze was just curious, not quite following Sherlock’s chain of thought.

“Right,” Sherlock blinked his eyes a few times and continued pacing. “Tell him you want to keep me safe then. He will believe that. You are a natural protector and as a friend you wouldn’t want me to come to harm.”

John frowned a second then nodded.

“I think I can do that.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “Magnussen will call you up to his office and I will be going with you, fully veiled, of course.”

“Veiled.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You know, like invisible.”

“You can really do that?” John asked skeptically.

“Do I have to remind you that I am a wizard, John?”

“‘Course not,” John smiled to himself like he had just said something funny.

“Let’s not waste time then,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat from the hanger by the door and went downstair, John only a second behind.

~::~::~::~::~::~

By the time their taxi reached Magnussen’s office Sherlock had thrown a veil over his person and was, as he put it earlier, invisible.

John wasn’t able to see his friend but Sherlock stuck close enough for him to feel his presence while he strode toward the elevators.

Of course one couldn’t just walk into Charles Augustus Magnussen’s office. His elevator was key-card secured and could only be called down by either Magnussen himself or his PA.

John took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“How may I help you?” A friendly female voice resounded through the speaker, the image of an attractive young woman displayed on the screen.

“My name is John Watson,” John said,” and I would like a word with Mr Magnussen.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “Mr Magnussen was expecting you,” she continued to John’s surprise. He looked in the vicinity of where Sherlock should be and raised an eyebrow. When Sherlock didn’t say anything he decided to go through with this insane plan.

The elevator door opened and Sherlock and John stepped inside.

“You still sure about this?” John whispered but didn’t receive an answer. Sherlock's concentration was rather occupied with keeping his veil intact. This kind of sensitive magic was not Sherlock’s strong suit and he needed his focus.

When the elevator door opened into an anteroom everything seemed too quiet, no sign of the PA that had talked to John just a minute ago.

“I don’t like this,” John said and Sherlock dropped his veil, rushing through the office.

“John,” Sherlock called after finding Magnussen’s PA lying on the ground behind her desk, unconscious.

“She needs an ambulance,“ John concluded, reaching for the woman’s pulse. “Somebody hit her over the head with -- that,” he pointed at rather heavy looking paperweight on the floor.

Sherlock nodded.

“You stay with her,” he said. “Magnussen must be here somewhere,” Sherlock said almost to himself and dashed off.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t really hear John, running down the hall toward what must be Magnussen’s office. Clearly something else was going on here when a familiar smell hit him -- Mary.

Mary Morstan was leaning over Magnussen’s dead body when Sherlock reached his office. Blood was dripping from Magnussen’s ripped throat down his neck to the floor.

“It was you,” Sherlock whispered, shocked for only a split-second.

Mary kept on kneeling by Magnussen’s body, her eyes dashing between Sherlock and the door.

“Is John here?” She asked.

“You are a hexenwolf,” Sherlock confirmed his own suspicion without realizing the danger he was in. He could hold off a hexenwolf, surely.

“John,” Mary spoke again, “is he here?”

“He is with the PA,” Sherlock confirmed, readying his body for her attack. Clearly she would make a run for it. Any human would be easy prey for the power of an hexenwolf.

Mary’s next step was not anticipated by Sherlock. She drew a weapon that had been concealed by her body, and shot him.

Sherlock’s reflexes were good but he hadn’t foreseen her move and wasn’t able to get his protective shield up in time. The bullet hit him straight in the chest and contemplating if it would be better to land on his back or stomach to minimize the damage became rather pointless when he hit the ground - on his back - and was engulfed by darkness.

TBC


End file.
